


Brothers

by Hope



Category: Lord of the Rings - Tolkien
Genre: Interspecies, M/M, first person POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-04-27
Updated: 2002-04-27
Packaged: 2017-10-03 13:33:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hope/pseuds/Hope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set during TTT, Faramir and Frodo meet in Ithilien.  (elaboration of book canon).  Frodo POV, light slash.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brothers

**Author's Note:**

> a lot of the dialogue and some of the descriptions are taken directly from (but often elaborated) The Two Towers (chapters 4 &amp; 5 of book IV)

It unsettled me at first, the way they seemed so similar.

Even when his men first came upon us, hooded and masked in green, I could recognise Boromir in their stature and bearing, in their manner of speech. In him. In the tone of his tense but proud, "I am Faramir, Captain of Gondor."

In the way the Ring sang in recognition of his blood.

Sam didn't trust them, I could see that clearly enough, though perhaps that wasn't so surprising. After all, not a soul had we seen - besides Smeagol, of course - for what seems like weeks, now. Seeing Sam there, his own bearing making him appear somehow more lethal than the soldiers he stood amongst, I could almost believe then that I am as precious to Sam as the Ring is to me.

The Ring . . .

Its voice rose from the ever-present whisper even as I fought it, struggled to remain calm, to keep my voice smooth and coherent, willed against its desire to be found and taken by this man; fair and proud as the other . . . But the Captain's words worked against me.

"Were you a friend of Boromir?" he had asked, his voice escalating in its suppressed intensity even as the whispers in my mind rose to a dull roar. The sound seemed to merge with memory and become the wounded roar of Rauros, endless, set behind a sickening feeling of unease and Boromir's face, smiling and kind . . .

"Boromir was a valiant member of our Company." I heard my voice as if from a distance. "Yes, I was his friend, for my part."

"Then you would grieve to learn that Boromir is dead?"

The ring seemed to hiss into ethereal silence, and I barely realised I'd spoken already, automatically keeping up appearances,

"Dead?"

The face in front of me, the face that is so alike to his, seemed to me to twist then, to darken into an orc-like snarl, his hand curling in bestial hunger on his sword hilt, and the sibilance of the ring urged me on: "You have been trying to trap me in words, playing with me? Or are you now trying to snare me with falsehood?" An edge of hissing hysteria crept into my voice.

It was Sam who saved me, as usual, coming forward to break the spell with his hands on his hips and his "See here, Captain!", giving me time to recover myself, to regain control of that struggle against what strove to bend me to its will.

Faramir turned to me again, and I was able to focus on his words with proper attention this time, the demands of the Ring once more forced to the lower levels of my awareness.

"You asked how do I know that the son of Denethor is dead. Tidings of death have many wings. _Night oft brings news to near kindred_, tis said." He paused, closed his eyes momentarily before fixing me with his gaze once more. "Boromir was my brother."

It seemed then that a shadow of sorrow was cast over his face, just as a shadow of fear crept over me - fear with more than an edge of suspicion, lent to me by the Ring. Ah, but I had barely saved the Ring from the proud grasps of Boromir . . . I did not know how I would fare amongst so many men like him, warlike and strong. And yet . . . something in my heart told me that this man - although externally disturbingly similar to his brother - was a man less self-regarding, sterner and wiser.

And his voice, his pain so pure and deeply felt; "_Boromir, O Boromir!_", and I felt then my own grief finally surface, pushing its way up through the sluggish murk of the Ring's shadow and making my knees weak. If Boromir was truly dead, then what of the rest of the company? Merry? Pippin?

I was weary, so weary, with the weight of the Ring now so trebled with grief and fear, that I wanted nothing more than to be left alone once more and allowed to continue on my journey - on _our_ journey, for Sam was still with me, and I could sense him by my shoulder at that moment, ready to steady me, catch me if I should fall . . . Yes. It was better with just the two of us.

Faramir offered us aid and counsel, but the memory of Boromir, and the dreadful change that the lure of the Ring worked on him was still present in my mind when I looked at the Captain, when I heard his voice: unlike they were, yet so much akin.

But we had no choice. We were taken with them - blindfolded once more, though Faramir assured us that the place he was leading us to was not so fair as Lórien - and I feared the Captain's further questioning on the topic of 'Isildur's Bane'.

My fears were realised. It was only after long and wearying discussion that we were able to sleep, all be it a sleep of exhaustion.

*************

I wake, and he is looming over me again, and he wants It, and It burns into my flesh as I shrink back, curl up around It -

"There is nothing to fear."

I relax a little, coming out of old fears, but still something is not right - his voice seems distant, empty and grating as if it has been scraped hollow . . .

"Is it morning already?" I cannot suppress a yawn, and speak, needing to fill that silence. I'm still weary, exhausted by hours of speech, questions, and hours of being on my guard, ready for -

"Not yet." He draws closer, and I feel the slight movement as his weight settles on the bed. "But night is drawing to an end."

His breathing is heavy in the darkness of the chamber, and I pull the blanket up closer around my shoulders, sinking back a little into the warmth of the bed, but willing myself to stay awake and alert. The man's shoulders seem to stoop a little - something is clearly troubling him - and I watch in silence, waiting for him to speak again. In wary silence, because his repeated assurance that _"not if I found it on the highway would I take it"_ has not assuaged my fears.

"Frodo," he murmurs. "Will you not tell me more of my brother?"

I frown a little, opening my mouth to speak, but he stops me with a short, bitter laugh.

"You've told me what you will already, I know," he says. "And what you feel I will take most kindly to, but please Frodo," He cuts off my protests, leaning closer toward me and laying a hand on my arm - I can feel it trembling even beneath the layers of furs and blanket, and his voice lowers further. "Tell me what happened. Tell me of my brother in the moments before he died. Surely you are the last who saw him alive -" He gasps this, as if the very pain of speaking it is stabbing him. "Because surely I loved him," A shudder runs through his body, and I feel it through his tightening grip on my arm. "And would know all I could of his final moments."

His eyes glint at me in the darkness of the chamber, his breath quick and uneven, and I cannot speak, I _will_ not speak, and this is in some ways worse than my fears, for I have not the heart to recollect the horror and ugliness that overcame his brother in those last moments before I ran. I would not dishonour his memory, especially to this man . . .

"Tell me," he whispers, in a voice bleeding and desperate, "Please. . ."

But I can't, I can't, I can never . . . his face is too close, his desperation to near too the other's, and I want to give him what he wants, what he needs, as I could never give his brother . . .

I reach out, perhaps to silence him, perhaps to replace the lack of my words with my touch and find my hands on his face, showing him, telling him . . . Tracing the memory of firelight on a face, enraptured and speaking of home, my hands on sharp cheekbones and rough beard mimicking the orange glow. My fingers, so small, mapping the tiny creases of a thousand yawns and smiles in the corners of his eyes, running down the straight line of a nose and imprinting on it the memory of one slightly crooked from some childhood misadventure. My palm rests on the tender spot where stern jaw meets neck, where another's palm once chafed in moments of indecision. My thumbs soothe over his brow, stroking into it the memory of the tension of a long journey, and long distance from home. My tongue, stroking across teeth in memories of battle cries, and into the depths of his mouth in memories of laughter, joy . . .

His tears mingle with my silence, and my eyes have fallen closed and I realise I'm not unsettled by it now - not unsettled by the way it seems to be Boromir's face in my hands, Boromir's forehead resting against mine, and the ring is cool and passive on my chest.

"Be at peace," I whisper.

We remain in silence for mere moments longer, then Faramir draws away. He rises, and turns his back to me for a moment.

"The full moon is setting." He turns to face me, finally, and he is composed once more. "Also there is a matter on which I desire your counsel. Will you come?"

It is cold in the cave, lacking entirely the heat and comfort of a fire. I shiver a little as I leave the warmth of the blanket and pelts behind me. The noise of the water is loud - strange, I didn't really notice it before, when all seemed to be silent. I pull on my cloak to try and ward off the chill, following the proud back that strides before me, grateful for the feeling of Sam's unfailing presence rising in silence behind me.


End file.
